Comfortably Numb
by Star1086
Summary: Olivia drinks - a lot. Who comes to the rescue? How will this affect their already strained relationship? Rated M for a reason. Strong sexual situations and the repeated use of my favorite naughty words. Post-Marionette angsty smutness.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This has been rattling around for a while. Dark and dirty, just how I like my smut :) Intended as a one shot, but I'm a little interested in exploring Peter's POV for the story. . . but alas, we'll see. Rated M for a reason. Inspired by Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb." I just love to see Olivia let loose and Peter come to the rescue... in a tortured sorta way. Enjoy!

No infringement intended, just borrowing for my own devices.

* * *

Olivia didn't mind the taste of whisky.

In fact, there was something about the burning sensation as the alcohol crept from her lips down her throat that was oddly comforting when she was feeling out of control; a musky scent that sat sticky on her tongue and she reveled in the feeling.

Olivia Dunham had been drinking whisky since she was fourteen—a private vice she allowed herself to relax into when reality was a bit too hard to deal with. And lately, harsh reality was all there was in her life. Peter had fucked her; the more pleasant version of herself from another universe—his universe. Wrapping your head around the concept seemed so farfetched it was laughable.

_Some women worry about men sleeping with their friends, I worry about men sleeping with other versions of me, s_he thought sardonically as she tipped back the drink and let it drain her. She had been coming to this bar every night after work, not bearing to bring herself to bring her back to her apartment and face the reality there. _Not where they slept together in my bed._ The image brought knots to the normal place in her stomach.

"'Nother one?" came a voice behind the bar, Tom—the barkeep. She'd seen him so much of late he had her order ready by the time her jacket was off and she was sitting. She smiled back. A fake one, but she was good at faking.

"Make that two," she turned her head to the man who had taken the empty bar seat beside her. Squinting her eyes at him, she tried to pull the hazy, jittery lines of his form through glassy eyes. He was good looking: sandy blonde hair and a mustache. He looked like one of the dicks that work on interpretational art in their garage. Olivia didn't remember seeing him there before. Tom placed both the glasses in front of them.

The man took his glass and raised it, "cheers" he said, an Australian accent diluting his words. Olivia gave a half hearted return, raising her eyebrow, but entirely uninterested on anything but her drink and her thoughts.

"Two more," she heard the man say; looking over her shoulder as he slid the extra toward her. She finished her own and took the proffered one. The man was attractive—feeling with irritation that it had been over two years since she'd been with John, and _Christ she needed to get laid._ Images of Peter locked into her conscious, swirling around tauntingly with images of _her. _It was pathetic.

"Thanks," she finally answered—feeling bolder when the liquor set in.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed or how much whisky she had, but she found herself pressed against the cold tile of the small private bathroom toward the back of the bar. She couldn't gage if she followed or was led, but all she could feel was hands and hot mouths and the sweet pain of his lips sucking too hard on the sensitive skin on her neck.

She couldn't focus; everything was spinning too quickly, the harsh florescent lights too bright and she was a little scared but so turned on that this wasn't her. She gripped the man's shirt collar and turned her head, feeling his teeth bite down on her shoulder as his hands fumbled to pull her shirt out of her pants.

She locked in on the toilet in the small room; watching it as it sat there disinterested and felt it too start to spin when his hands simultaneously unzipped her pants and pushed her shirt over her breasts, running his tongue over her bra. When it impeded his mouth, he yanked hard, and Olivia heard buttons ting against the bathroom floor as they fell.

Christ, she was going to get fucked by a total stranger in the bathroom of a bar.

The spinning had become too much—and she was panicking, turning her head to the side when he tried to kiss her mouth, afraid she might be sick. The man seemed undeterred; biting down on her neck instead and she heard the sound of his belt unbuckling with sick realization.

All movement stopped when there was pounding on the door.

The man stilled his hands; Olivia's head pounded furiously against her skull. The pounding continued.

"Fuck off man, occupied." The man's husky voice reverberated in the stall.

The door sounded like it exploded when it was kicked in, splintering off the small lock with a boom so loud that Olivia's eyes rolled back into her skull from the pain. She felt the man ripped violently off her and the thud of fists slapping against skin mixed with exchanges of curses and shouting but she couldn't tell whose voices were which through the spinning.

When she opened her eyes she saw double; a new man approaching her, his face livid and she was sure she was going to be sick. She felt him pull her shirt together and she knew she should be mortified, but couldn't feel anything except his fingers as they pulled up her pants to button them hastily.

"Jesus, Olivia…" she felt his rough hands across her forehead, and she wished they were anyone's but his. There was silence as he stared, stone-faced at her. She took in even through the haze how much he looked like his father at that moment, but maybe it was just the alcohol.

She heard the man on the floor moan, and Peter pulled her arm around his shoulder to drag her out of the bathroom, leaving the Australian-sounding man she almost fucked bleeding on the bathroom floor.

The walk through the bar was quick, she heard Peter grunt a "thanks Tom," over his shoulder, but couldn't connect why he'd be thanking him—but then again she didn't care. She was bustled into the cold frigid night air and she felt a little better—the spinning subsiding and the knots in her stomach releasing into a dull ache.

They didn't walk far; he had her into the front seat of the dilapidated station wagon and slamming the door shut before she realized where they were going. She leaned her face against the cold glass of the window and waited. She listened as he climbed into the driver's side and there was another slammed door to punctuate her migraine. She didn't say anything; not trusting herself enough. So she just stared at him.

His was looking forward, hands like steel vices locking on the steering wheel. She thought she saw something like blood on his knuckles and the gravity of the situation hung between them like a ticking bomb.

"What the hell were you thinking?" He grated through clenched teeth. His tone unsettled her. He was staring at her now, the line on his forehead thick with anger. She was fuming; irrationally and drunk—but she wasn't a child. She was an FBI agent, damn it—and no one talked to her that way.

"I was fine…" she spat, her own anger spilling over. Peter cut her off. "Almost having sex with a total stranger when your drunk out of your mind in a bathroom stall—really looks like you're fine, Olivia."

Olivia was reeling; his words a slap to the face. "What I do," she started, "is none of your concern." She spoke as clearly as she could, punctuating each word with spitfulls of venom. He held her gaze with his own, flexing his jaw like he always did when he was uncomfortable. He turned the ignition and shifted into drive with more force than necessary and drove. Olivia settled into the uncomfortable silence, letting hang with smug satisfaction. He made a turn on the next light and she froze.

"Where are we going?" She asked. Peter didn't turn from the road.

"I'm taking you home." He grunted.

Home. Where _they_ had been together. Where they laughed, and watched movies and ate dinner and slept—the spinning came back and she slapped the window with her hand, croaking out a "no!" so forcefully that Peter jumped.

"Please," she begged, her breathing shallow and giving up all facades of being brave, "please don't take me there. "

She felt Peter's eyes find her finally; studying her as she was sure he was doing and make a U turn in the middle of the street back in the other direction. She released the breath she was holding and let the darkness take her in.

It was dark; her spinning head now dull thunder as she laid stretched out in bed. But she wasn't in her room. Breathing in the pillow, she recognized the scent, _his scent. _She was in Peter's bed. Leaning over to turn on the bedside light, the room flooded in soft light. She was almost achingly disappointed that she was alone. She was laying over the covers with a thick quilt tossed over her, she realized with horror that he must have had to change her from her ruined shirt into one of his. The thin fabric was soft against her skin as she ran her fingers over it, feeling the pebbled MIT adorned across the front. Her shoes, pants and shirt were tossed into a nearby chair in the room.

Wrapping the quilt around her she got out of bed, feeling drunk still, but slightly sharper as she left the room and padded down the stairs—wanting desperately to run away from the embarrassment she was sure she'd feel in the morning, but settling for a glass of water.

She found the kitchen and pulled a glass from the sink, not caring if it were dirty or clean, to fill it with tap water. She downed it in a matter of seconds, gulping at it and feeling it hit her stomach icily.

She heard a grunt from the other room and spun, almost dropping the glass. No one was there. She replaced the glass in the sink and flicked off the light, letting her eyes adjust to the growing darkness. She could see the tiny living room in the distance, and made her way toward it.

Peter was stretched out on the couch; arms folded and ankles crossed—still wearing the clothes he must have had on earlier. His eyes were shut and his face relaxed; asleep. Olivia took in his face greedily, feeling almost pervish staring at him asleep in her underwear and his shirt, but she was beyond caring at this point. The damage was done. He shifted and tightened his arms around himself, but he didn't wake. Olivia pulled the quilt from around her shoulder and laid it over him, probably the same way he did for her, but miles different; the ache she felt stifling. He relaxed under her touch, reaching out as he turned and inadvertently grazing her thigh and the moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

She froze—heart pounding madly as she crouched over him, terrified he'd wake up and catch her little voyeur session. But he shifted back and heaved a sigh; his face relaxed. Olivia felt the ache burning holes in her abdomen; the slight touch of his hand causing her stomach to flip and begged her to have him do it again.

Feeling bold and still slightly drunk, she dropped to her knees beside the couch reaching out and running her hand down the length of the quilt and back up to his face. He shifted, leaning his face into her palm and she felt emblazoned. His eyes fluttered open and stared at her, glassy eyed and confusion etching his features. Without thinking, she lifted up the quilt and crept onto the couch next to him, feeling his hot breath on her face in surprise as she climbed under the blanket with him.

He laid there frozen, his breath coming out in little puff-puffs and she felt satisfied at his unease. She eased her knee over his torso and felt his erection plain as day against his jean and she was suddenly on fire, knees locking on either side of him as she straddled him. God, she needed to touch him, to feel him against her. His hands were tight balls resting on her bare thighs, rigid and unmoving. She wanted desperately for him to touch her. Leaning down next to his face, she whispered into the darkness, "Peter, please." It wasn't a request.

She took his earlobe into her mouth and sucked, feeling his fingers dig into her flesh and it was his turn to groan as she devoured him, trailing her tongue down the rugged terrain of his jaw and knew she had something to prove. She listened intently to his haggard breathing escaping in little gasps as she ran her fingers across his shirt, forcefully and without mercy. She trailed her hands down to the buckle on his pants expertly and he bucked slightly beneath her as she ran her tongue over his throat. His hands wrapped around and gripped her ass. She was so wet it was embarrassing.

Pulling his face away from hers, she heard his voice—it sounded like he was swallowing sand. "Olivia, we can't," he started, but she ground her hips against his and felt in satisfaction the hiss in response.

A sudden image popped into her head; suddenly frantic that maybe she'd done this exact thing to him before—on this couch…

"Olivia," he repeated, taking her face in his hands and forcing her to meet his gaze. "This isn't you," he said, the disappointment dripping from his words. Olivia bit down on her lip.

"that's not the problem," she hissed, feeling pinpricks on her exposed skin. "It's because I'm not _her," _she spat; reading the guilt on his already pained face. He was back to flexing his jaw again; locking them in a silent face-off, warring with himself. Olivia was sure she had stopped breathing, a little terrified at what the utterance caused.

"You're right," he whispered, the same intense stare holding hers, "You're not her." The statement was so heartbreakingly gentle that she wasn't sure if he used it to wound or as an explanation. She felt her mouth go dry as she twisted her face away from his.

He leaned forward, shifting his weight from under her and clutching her carefully around the thighs as he rolled her backward, and for an instant she thought maybe he would kiss her, but he merely pulled her off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. He stood and stared at her for a moment longer, the quilt had fallen onto the floor in the quick move, but Olivia didn't care that she sat there before her half-naked and rejected, yet again. All she could feel was the hole in her chest.

"Walter likes to wake up early; prepare yourself for naked jumping jacks." She nodded, tears stinging her eyes, but she would be damned if she'd let them fall in front of him. She watched him stride over to the door and jam his feet into his big black boots and grab the keys. She stole a fleeting glance at him staring at her, before he grabbed the keys and disappeared behind the door, clicking it shut behind him.

She closed her eyes, feeling the tears bubbling over onto her cheeks, and she left them there. There was nothing to prove now. Hearing the old Station wagon roar to life outside she knew things were never going to go back the way they were.

She sat there, alone on the couch with her hand pressed hard over her mouth as she struggled against the surge of emotion, wishing that he hadn't stopped her in the bar that night and she got fucked by the blonde man with the moustache, because anything would have been better at this moment than the numb feeling she was engulfed in right now.


	2. Chapter 2

The night was unbearable as it was long.

The unparalleled time between twilight and dusk was cruel and unrelenting as he stared in vain at his alarm clock, begging it to move either more quickly or slower—anything would be more bearable than the heartless constant flicker of unmoving time in his face.

It was hardest because the silent passage of time allowed his mind to wander and for things he'd been avoiding to come to head and dance unrelenting on the forefront of his consciousness.

The fact that he missed her.

He was the red herring; the idiot that was sleeping with a woman that wasn't who he thought she was. All the little clues hanging in front of him, snippets that warned him not to chase down the rabbit hole—and he followed willingly. He allowed himself to think that he, and he alone was the sole instigator of her insignificant change. That hubris caused him to wreck and shatter the only family unit he ever truly had. This fact made him miss her even more; not just as a lover or friend, but as the sole constant unwavering entity in his life that kept him grounded.

Peter hated the night the worst.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed himself to forget. All the possibilities, all the what if's and the could have beens. He was getting pretty good at stuffing all those things down into the pit of his stomach that would allow him to sleep for a few hours. He was drifting off into a welcomed sleep when this phone vibrated on his nightstand.

He watched it for a moment, silently cursing whoever it was that pulled him from his uneasy rest. His curiosity getting the better of him, he answered.

"Peter Bishop." He muttered into the phone.

There was a short silence of dead air.

Confused, he checked the phone number on the front of his phone. It was local; but a number he didn't recognize.

"Hello?" He said, irritated.

"Peter?"

The voice was recognizable, but he couldn't place it.

"Yes," he asked, sarcasm inflating his words.

"Hey Peter, it's Tom—"

Peter rolled onto his back, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Tom: the bartender on Havana Street who had gotten Peter out of some scrapes in the past.

"It's late Tom, what's—"

Tom interrupted him. "It's your FBI friend, I think you may want to get down here." He stated plainly. Peter could hear his hoarse whisper, like he was covering the receiver with his hand.

"Olivia? Is she okay?" Peter jerked forward, already rolling out of bed to slide into a pair of jeans on the floor.

"Yeah, it's none of my business, but I think you might want to come…intervene." He finished.

"I'll be right there."

Peter fingered the phone off and was out the door, shoving his feet into his boots without stopping to grab socks.

Tom's mysterious conversation whirled around in his head on the way to the bar, _intervene what_? He wondered. _Had she gotten into a fight?_ Tom certainly had interceded during minor scuffles when Peter had too much sarcasm coupled with too much alcohol, calling Olivia in the middle of the night to retrieve him facedown off the sidewalk, but he had never received a phone call about her before.

Something must seriously be off.

He roared to a stop in the closest spot in front of the bar and walked briskly inside, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep himself from running.

He found Tom behind the bar, wiping it down looking miffed. Peter nodded a "hey," to him.

"She's in the bathroom..."

"Bathroom?" Peter's brow furrowed. He wasn't too thrilled to be called to clean up whisky puke from Tom's bathroom toilet.

Tom stopped wiping, jerking a shoulder.

"She's back there with, uh…" he struggled, "…some dude. She's pretty messed up." Tom glanced over his shoulder and shot a nasty look to a laughing couple who were eavesdropping.

Peter froze, his vision blurry and little crackling noises popping in his ears. He wasn't sure if Tom thought they were still together or broken up—he didn't care. He was already striding back to the back of the bar, his fists clenched into tight little balls at his sides as he made it to the dingy wooden door leading to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall with the flickering light.

He pressed his ear to the door—eyes squinting as he listened. He heard muffled noises but little else. He knocked.

Nothing. More muffled voices.

He knocked again, this time louder—three strong _thunks_ against the flimsy door. He pressed his fingers along wood and pushed. It was locked.

The voice that called out made him jump.

"_Fuck off man, occupied." _

Peter was a bomb of fiery rage, ready to detonate. He stopped thinking, taking a quick backward step and heaving his foot at the door, feeling a sharp pain in his leg as it splintered and exploded off the lock.

Nostrils flaring and chest heaving, he followed the door into the little bathroom, filling the already small area with his presence. He saw her before he saw him. His stomach lurched as he took her in: partially hidden by the body of the man as he held her upright, her head lolling to one side, her face away from him. Her shirt was ripped open.

Peter's temper had always been volatile; raw and uninhibited when adrenaline surged through him. He zoomed in on the man: his blonde hair and little mustache and the way his one hand gripped her mangled shirt to hold her up and his other one frozen at his pants as they laid open around his hips.

He acted more on extinct and rage than on rationalization; he grabbed the man's shirt and ripped him violently away from Olivia, raining punches down as the man tried to furtively to keep a grip on his pants while protecting his face from Peter's onslaught of rage.

The man called out in his surprise, but Peter paid no attention, uttering streams of expletives knowing without caring that the man couldn't hear him. After a few moments the man went limp; Peter had to physically restrain himself from continuing and killing him. He dropped him, groaning and bleeding on the floor. Little hissing noises escaped his mouth as he breathed through clenched teeth and shaking violently.

Confident the man wouldn't get back up, he turned to Olivia, eyes squeezed shut and leaning heavily against the wall. Peter's rage dissipated as he turned her over, taking her face in his trembling hands to make sure she was intact.

She opened her eyes at his touch, blood-shot and glassy, _she looked like hell_. He could smell the whisky on her breath from standing so close to her. The welts began to rise on her neck and chest to form into little hickeys against the skin.

His eyes dropped down to her open shirt, the same basic functional black bra he remembered from the first time she stripped to step into the deprivation to retrieve information on her dead partner. He ignored the burn in his stomach as he fumbled to close her shirt as she stumbled against him.

She tried to say something; maybe to protest—but the words came out as little more than incoherent mumbles.

She looked wrecked. He wrapped an arm around her to keep her upright, feeling her weight against him. His eyes trailed lower to her opened pants, and he worried for a moment he was too late, but pushed that aside, as he tried to button her pants with his free hand. He felt her groan before he heard it; soft and husky against his face. Fuck.

"Jesus, Olivia" he breathed, feeling sick and livid all at the same time.

He wrapped her arm over his shoulder, listening to the man start to come around as he groaned on the floor and knew it was time to make their exit. He had to drag Olivia most of the way, feeling the curious faces on him as he took her through the bar to the door.

"Thanks Tom," he shot over his shoulder, taking a mental note that he owed him more than he could express at that moment.

The air stung him when the made it outside, feeling the pain electrify his bruised and bloody knuckles as they gripped her dead weight to keep her moving. They reached the car in record time; he noticed that she was significantly lighter than the last time he felt her…felt _her_.

He jutted out a hip to hold her weight and opened the car door for her, dropping her into the passenger seat. She was at least coherent enough to pull her own feet in before he slammed the door. He stood in the cold for a moment, now that she was safely stowed in the car he let the anger return washing over him and flushing his face as the situation fully announced itself.

_What the hell had she been thinking?_

Trying to swallow the irritation, he finally made his way around the car to let himself in. The silence ticked away the seconds, and he could only sit on the cold worn leather of the seat and grip the steering wheel; gathering his thoughts to form coherent sentences. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her. So he settled with uncomfortable silence and concentrating on breathing.

There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but all he could really think of was taking her by the shoulders and shaking her to an inch of her life, screaming "why!" and an onslaught of choice expletives if he hadn't used them all in the bathroom on the man who may or may not have fucked her.

He settled with forced calm. "What the hell were you thinking?"

She turned her face toward him, eyes in little slits like she always does when she was mad—he never turned toward her, so he settled for the peripheral. The smell of stale whisky filled the car when she spoke: "I was fine—"she started, but his tongue and anger was faster than hers.

"Almost having sex with a total stranger when your drunk out of your mind in a bathroom stall—really looks like you're fine, Olivia." He almost regretted the words as soon as he said them, _almost. _He hoped she wouldn't correct him if he were wrong. He stared at her openly now, watching her face tightened at his words. He had gotten under her skin. Good.

"What I do," the slurring a little less now, a little more alert; her own fury boiling over now, "is not your concern."

_You're right, it's none of my business. _He thought to himself. He started the car, intending on taking her home and dumping her on her bathroom floor to sleep it off. A few blocks in she had a moment of clarity: "Where are we going?" the panic making her voice raise to near hysteria. Confusion took over anger, "I'm taking you home." He answered.

Peter could count on one hand the times he's seen Agent Olivia Dunham break through her little starched shirt walls at real emotion; many of those from the other one. He jumped when she slammed a fist against the window and yelped out a "no!" He pushed the break to the floor and sat, unmoving in the middle of the deserted street for an explanation.

"Please," her voice pitiful—"don't take me there."

Peter breathed for a moment, in and out, in and out, waiting for something to make sense. He tolled over his options: dropping her off at Astrid's, calling Rachel—none of them practical; it was three in the morning and Rachel was in Chicago. There was really only one option. He flipped the car around to drive them back to his and Walter's little house. He snuck a side glance and her, ready to retort her anticipated response, but she was already asleep against the window.

They drove back in silence, pulling up to the front of the house just when the night was at its blackest, and Peter realized just how tired he was. Getting Olivia from the car to the house was slow and arduous, taking on her dead weight and dragging her inside. He wanted desperately to just dump her off on the couch downstairs, but he knew he wouldn't, so he dragged her up the stairs to his bedroom.

It was a weird sensation; having her in his room—this way. He thought for a second just dropping her in bed, but feared she'd wake up in the middle of the night wondering why her shirt was missing all its buttons and felt it would be…discourteous in some bizarre way.

He leveraged her against his chest to pull off the mangled heap of her shirt and toss its remains into a nearby chair. He tried not to linger too long about how she felt against him, feeling almost criminal when she shifted, wrapping her arm around his chest and he instantly hardened—his body recognizing hers instantly.

_Baseball. Being electrocuted. Parasitic worms. _His mind went everywhere but to her, wrapping herself around him. He pulled her toward the bed, coaxing her to move her legs with him—to grab the closest shirt he could find. He sat her on the bed, noticing her eyes opening and taking him in. She didn't even notice her shirt was missing as he crouched over her.

"Hey," he said awkwardly.

"Hey," she mumbled. Taking deep breathes and swallowing.

"You okay?" He asked tentatively, trying to nudge over his trash can toward the bed with his toe without her noticing.

She nodded, a little like a drunk person nodded when they tried to pretend they weren't drunk. Eyes closed; back to breathing.

"Well, arms up," he ordered—she obeyed without question and he pulled the shirt over her head and helped feed her arms through.

"Better?"

More drunken nods. Peter couldn't help but chuckle when she plopped backward on the bed, feet still dangling off the side over the floor. Sighing, he kneeled down to untie her ugly black boots to join the shirt and helped pull her toward the pillow. He ran his hand over her hair, smoothing it where it was in disarray.

She jerked back awake, causing Peter to rip his hands away; she looked at him without seeing as she mumbled, "can't sleep with pants on," and started trying to undo the button on her pants. Peter sat there palms still up like he had been caught red handed. Her fingers fumbled on the button; irritated, he slapped her hands away and did it for her, helping her slide her pants off her kicking legs until she was freed from them.

Satisfied with herself she turned back toward him, eyes still glassy but slightly more lucid, staring.

"Peter," she whispered. He had to drop his head down to hear her.

"yeah?" he whispered back.

"I almost did something stupid tonight." She said matter-of-factly.

He pulled a bemused expression. "Yes, yes you did." He returned, feeling immensely relieved.

She nodded again, like it explained everything, and Peter rolled his eyes, vowing that he was going to return the favor the next time he was black out drunk. He pulled his head away when she caught his shoulder with a steady hand. He opened his mouth in surprise as he looked at her, their faces millimeters apart.

"Thank you," she breathed into his face, and Peter's heart jumped. He could only nod in return. Peter ached to reach out and touch her—to run his hands along her naked legs just feel her, but he knew how bad the repercussions would be if he did. He took her cheek instead, guiding her toward the pillow.

"Sleep it off," he tried to joke, but she wouldn't relinquish her hold on his shirt.

"Stay." She whispered in his ear; little pinpricks tingled on his neck as she grazed her lips over his skin. Pulling away, he shakes his pudding-filled head.

"I can't." He wants to say _yes. _She's breathing so fast it's all he hears, but maybe it was him because _Christ he really wants to say yes. _

She lets go, taking the arm he has draped over to roll it to her thigh- rolling her eyes back as she trails it up his shirt, disappearing under the grey material. Peter bites back the moan he's stifling as he feels the material of her underwear and the soft skin of her stomach.

_Retreat._

He pulls his hand away with sheer determination, and grabs a quilt off the end of the bed to cover her, pretending to look anywhere but at her. But he's thankful when he does to find her eyes closed and sleeping soundly.

Wrapping his fingers around his neck, he massages the tight muscles there to regain his composure. Stealing one last glance at her asleep he slips out of the room and makes his way downstairs to the living room couch, thankful that Walter was sleeping in his own room tonight.

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep but he had the oddest sensation that someone was watching him. He was having the most lucid dreams: filled with Olivia's blond hair billowing over him as she straddles him—

His eyes snapped open when he felt something warm crawl on top of him. It took a second to figure out where he was—living room, under a blanket that wasn't there before, and with a very real Olivia sliding over him on the couch. He was already rock hard even before she touched him. His brain was a muddled mess; his body responding of its own accord as he felt her knees on either side of him and his hands run up the length of her legs. With effort, he was able to ball them up; unmoving like a frightened deer, fearful she was still asleep.

His fear was replaced with a desperate need when she leans down and whisperes, "Peter, please," in a way that blows hot air on his neck that made him quiver and when she bites down on his ear he almost comes anyway.

He tried to find the words to make her stop—to talk some sense into her. A million words floated around his head, but none were tangible enough to grasp. He was defenseless. His hands gripped her legs, trying to move them back from his lap. Her hands trickled down his shirt to his belt buckle, trying to unfasten it as she trailed her lips up his throat. His fingers dug into the flesh of her ass to pull her closer to him, because he desperately needed her closer.

_Stop. _

"Olivia, we can't" he tries thickly, feeling her lips assault his neck. It was getting hard to think of reasons to make her stop doing the delightful things with her mouth and tongue. She rocked into him, pushing hard against his erection and he couldn't hold back the grated hiss that escaped as his fingers gripped into her soft skin to pull her closer to him. God, he wanted her so much it hurt. He wanted to roll on top of her and show her all the things she missed while she was gone; to prove to her that it was her and always her he wanted…

But he wouldn't. He wouldn't do that to her, like this. He pulls his hands away from her legs to take her face, trying to force her to look at him. "Olivia," he musters his self control. "This isn't you," he tries in way of explanation. The look on her face is heartbreaking and he already feels like an asshole.

Her fingers die on his half-undone belt buckle and the pain is evident on her face. He squares off with his face, spitting out "That isn't the problem," he hisses into his face, her voice back to its normal clarity, "It's because I'm not _her." _

Peter is awestruck. His tongue thick and unmoving in his mouth. The truth of her words stabbed him; _she _had nothing and yet everything to do with them. With the irreparable damage that had been done, and was all his fault.

He spoke slowly, tilting his head toward hers, coming closer than he ever had before, "You're right," he gets out with strenuous effort, "you're not." She wins.

Her face falls; twisting away from his and he's torn into pieces. He can't offer her any explanation to his deceit, he can't tell her how he feels haunted by his own arrogance and hubris and how it has destroyed any chance of them being friends, let alone lovers. So he sits in silence.

He leans into her, wanting to take her lips, her mouth, her everything to show her what his words mean, but it's too late and they're too far away from one another to bridge the gap. So he settles for the closeness of her face to his, as he rolls her off his lap and onto the other side of the couch, giving him a chance to breathe. She's so much lighter not than he remembers only hours ago. She pulls her legs up to her chest, and she looks rather small and vulnerable; like the pictures of her when she was experimented on by Walter as a child.

He had to get the hell out of there.

"Walter likes to wake up early; prepare yourself for naked jumping jacks." He says, trying to hide his face from her. She only nods in return and he strides to the door, stuffing his bare feet into his boots like he had done only hours before and ready to escape back into the night. Walter would have to understand; he only prayed he slept late and Olivia would be gone before they had to explain the mess they were back in the midst of.

Peter couldn't see her well through the darkness of the living room, but as he turned his head to grab his keys he thought he heard the unmistakable sound of crying, and he knew deep in his chest that it was because of him. He slammed the door behind him and made his way to the car, sleep would have to wait; he had to escape for a few hours at least.


	3. Chapter 3

"Agent Dunham?"

Everything hurt.

Olivia woke up feeling like she had gotten trampled by a few dozen tanker-sized horses. Forcing an eye open, the room spun at an alarming speed and she immediately regretted doing it.

"Walter?" Her voice was ragged; raw and drawn.

She squeezed one eye and tried to focus out the other—to some success—Walter was standing over her, wearing a worn plaid robe holding a cup of coffee and wearing a confused sort of grin.

Coffee.

The smell of burnt beans immediately took her, reaching down her throat and threatening to pull it back up with it. She pulled her face away from the revolting smell; clamping her hand over her mouth and nose in an attempt to keep the contents of her stomach from the uprising revolt.

"Oh," Walter muttered, rather high and sign-song, realizing the gaffe. He shuffled back a few feet, swinging the mug too quickly and spilling some on his hand and slushing the rest on the floor. She could hear the yipe escape him, but refused to open her eyes to see. She concentrated on breathing evenly in the vain attempt to get the pounding in her head to subside and her stomach to settle.

_What the hell was Walter doing there? And why did she feel like she had eaten the wrong end of a cigar._

She tried to piece together the images of the prior night… all she had was broken bits and pieces of pictures she didn't understand. Flashes of flickering lights and faces, but nothing she could grasp onto.

"I know just what you need Agent Dunham," she heard Walter yell from the kitchen. She could hear cabinets opening and closing, and she wondered if he wasn't being unnecessarily loud because of the burn or because he was just being Walter.

She tried with some effort to sit up—she was on a couch. In the Bishop's house. The spinning was less now, the nausea temporarily subsided. She stood, instantly regretted it, but stayed planted on her feet. Looking down, she realized she was clad only in an old MIT shirt and checked to make sure that Walter was safely tucked away in the kitchen. As an afterthought, she grabbed the old quilt from the couch and wrapped it around her before going after him.

She could see the fuzzy outline of Walter milling away in the kitchen, plying a scoop from an open tub of strawberry ice cream in a revolting looking concoction he had sitting on the counter. He finished it by cracking a raw whole egg into it, it plopped very unceremoniously into the middle of the goo.

Walter nudged it toward her, looking expectantly at her reaction.

Olivia stared at it in revulsion.

"Walter," she started warningly.

"Trust me, it will help—" he started, nudging it a little further. He turned to find what was left of his spilled coffee poured some more of the black creation from the burner. The smell hovered and the nausea returned and Olivia had to clamp her hand over her mouth again and backtracked. There was no way she could get _whatever that was _down.

Walter made a little "oh," sound and put down the mug, once more forgetting the coffee reaction.  
"Sorry about that," he smiled, wiping his hands off on his robe. "Please, drink that, you'll feel much better I believe." He pushed the glass of brown liquid into her hands. She stared, incredulous. Hesitantly, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. It was the texture and not much better tasting than mud.

"You're not pregnant, are you Agent?"

She choked, the mud stuck in her throat and causing her to hack up whatever had already slid down her throat. Walter uncertainly patted her on the back.

"No," she said between coughs, "of course not, Jesus Walter."

Walter raised his hands like he was approaching a frightened horse, "Now, now—I had to ask; the contents of what your drinking would adversely affect a fetus—"

"Stop," she waved him off. He went instantly silent. She tried to get down more of the drink just for something to do. The drink was disgusting, but for some reason it stopped the churning in her stomach.

"What is this?" She asked.

This seemed to revive Walter, he excitedly pattered back around the kitchen toward his already cold coffee, "a concoction of my own device, developed it in college when I would spend one too many nights out," he explained with gusto—taking a swig out of his coffee.

There was an awkward silence between them that Walter appeared unaware of. She took another drink, with effort, but was feeling almost normal again.

"So," she began, unsure where to take it. She decided on honesty, "why am I here?" She asked mildly.

It seemed to dawn on Walter that this was particularly unusual. His eyes darted Olivia toward the living room, like he half-expected Peter to be asleep on the couch with her.

"Is Peter not down here?"

Olivia's stomach went cold; it could have been from the drink, but she knew it probably wasn't.

"Peter?" As she asked, images of bar bathrooms and Peter's livid face exploded into her mind; him pulling a man off her, her crawling on top of him in the middle of the night, him telling her no, being rejected…

She dropped the glass—the contents spiraled upward like a mushroom cloud, splattering her with showers of sticky mud.

"Jesus," she breathed, she turned toward the sink and barely had enough time to shove Walter out of the way before she heaved whatever made it into her stomach into the kitchen sink.

She heard Walter standing over her, casually saying over her shoulder, "are you sure you're not pregnant Agent Dunham? I've never seen this reaction before to my cocktail…"


	4. Chapter 4

Peter really had no where better to go. He drove aimlessly down the deserted streets, winding around and hoping something would distract him from the events that unfolded an hour before.

Christ, he still wasn't sure if he made the right decision. Walking out when she was so willing and eager was maddening, but he had to think it was for the best. He was sometimes too smart for his own good.

Because he didn't have any better reason to, he drove back to the bar—under the guise of wanting to thank Tom but really just for a place to go.

She shuffled back into the bar—hands stuffed in his pockets as he scanned his surroundings: the place was deserted, save for a few drunks still lingering in the corners. Tom stalked behind him wielding a palate of glass bottles.

"Didn't think I'd see you back here so soon, Bishop," Tom said over his shoulder, and Peter jumped. Apparently he was still on edge. He forced a laugh; hard and fast.

"Hey," he started, but wasn't sure where to take it—so he followed Tom, scratching his chin irritably.

"I just wanted to make sure I didn't cause you too much trouble." He lied.

Tom knew he was lying, but didn't comment on it. Instead he heaved the palate onto the bar and started to put the bottles away. Peter took a seat at the bar.

"No more trouble than you usually cause," he commented. Peter gruffed, running his fingers through his hair and streaming the bar—looking back to the hall that led to the bathroom.

"Yeah, I'll pay for whatever trouble I caused," he began but Tom cut him off with a lazy wave.

"The guy was a dirtbag, here every week trying to pick up on drunk college girls-don't worry about it," He pushed a bottle of beer toward Peter, who took it gratefully, pulling a swig from it and letting it burn his throat. There were so many questions he wanted answered, but he didn't want to give too much away.

"Is he…okay?" he asked, putting effort into saying the word _him. _

Tom continued his task at hand, giving a little shrug. "Cops picked him up—you did quite the number on him—had to make sure you didn't kill him back there." He said very matter of factly.

Peter stared hard at his drink, willing the sudden onslaught of anger flash over him; he tore at the label on the bottle, shredding it into pulp under his fingers.

Tom must have noticed the change and leaned over him. "He'll be fine, Bishop. Nothing more than a severe ass kicking. Kinda nice not having to clean you up for once." He joked. Peter forced a smile. Tom turned his back away from him, busying himself with putting out the bottles on the higher shelves.

"So how is our little Ms. Dunham?" He asked.

Peter stopped mashing the paper label, the destruction already done. He didn't really want to think about it, much less talk about it.

"Sleeping it off." He answered cryptically.

Tom nodded, not pushing it any further. Peter was thankful. He changed topics.

"So why are you back here in the a.m.? To help me close up the place?"

Peter took another swig of the beer he didn't really want.

"Couldn't sleep."

Tom looked back at him, looking at the dark circles under his eyes and the 5 o'clock shadow he was sure he was sporting. He grabbed the beer away from him and it disappeared under the bar somewhere. Peter's brows knitted together.

"Go home, Bishop." He called as he turned away, carrying the empty palate with him.

Peter stared at his now empty hands—saying under his breath, "thanks Tom." He wasn't sure if Tom heard him or not.

He got up and plunked a few bucks down on the bar and turned back into the early daylight, trying to think of somewhere new to go.

He had bounced around from one bar to another—staying concealed in the corners and watching people wind down the night, shuffling out into the early morning, some in pairs, others solo, but never staying in one place too long. If he sat for too long he would have to deal with the crushing consequences of that night.

The images of Olivia crawling over him, her eyes dark pools in her face as she reached for him, and he couldn't—_wouldn't_ respond; the memories still lingering tragically in his stomach. This was unbearable. He had to suppress the itchy urge to run, to cut his losses here and to get into Walter's car and drive until it broke down. Then get out and walk. But his chance to run was far over—Walter unfortunately needed his constant care and he actually had a job that didn't involve seedy back alley transactions and owing immense amounts of money to a man called "Big Eddie." He was trapped and he knew it.

It was time to go home.

The sun was starting to peak out over the Boston skyline, dirt and smog illuminated hazily in the horizon. The sun was starting to blind Peter, but he welcomed it—it made him think that if he were in the other universe that he wouldn't witness the same sunrise—but he knew it would rise all the same. This idea made him feels oddly inconsequential.

He rolled back up to his house, it looked exactly the same as it had before: little broken aluminum siding and the small, neglected yard they didn't need. Peter was beyond exhausted; he was looking forward to sinking face-first into his bed and try to escape the horror of the last few days of existence. He prayed that Olivia was awoken and left to spare them the awful awkwardness they would have to deal with at some point. Just not now.

The door creaked as he opened it, sunlight flooding into the house openly now, and he tiptoed passed the living room, refusing to look over to see if Olivia was still there. When a voice called out to him he nearly gasped.

"Peter!" Walter's excited voice rang through the empty space between the walls. Peter clutched his chest, feeling it pound wildly in his chest.

"Jesus, Walter—" he couldn't formulate anything more. Walter had sprung off the couch to shuffle toward him, excitement beaming from every orifice.

"Agent Dunham was here!" He was able to get out. Peter's brows knitted together, feeling the pressure let out of him like a balloon at the past tense.

"Yes," he answered, taking on the tone that would keep Walter from getting too excited. Walter clutched at his arms, smiling broadly, "but it's not what you think Walter…" Peter began, trying to tone down Walter's assumption.

"I'm so very excited, Peter—I knew she'd eventually understand and to see the situation rationally," Peter was shaking his head adamantly and taking his father's shoulder to look him squarely in the eyes.

"Walter…" he demanded, "It's not like that… we're not like that." He pushed cautiously. The confusion masked Walter's face, obviously recalculating the evidence before him.

"But, but, but" he stumbled, "she was here, in a state of undress…in your shirt!" he concluded, pointing a finger at Peter like the evidence stated the contrary. Peter let go of Walter to allow him to pace around the living room, ticking off proof that made Peter feel like a science project that had failed to work. Peter let his arms fall to his sides, waiting for Walter to wind himself back down. He stared at the floor, _what the hell was covering it?_

"Walter," he cut in, desperate to change the direction of the topic before Walter gave himself an aneurism. Walter stopped his pacing to listen.

"What's that on the floor?" Peter jutted his chin out to the stick mess that had dried into a frothy patch on the wood.

Walter followed his gaze with interest, completely forgetting about the dropped hangover cure he made for Olivia. He waved it off and went back to his pacing, mumbling that _he'd have Astrick clean it and that he hoped Olivia was indeed not pregnant…_

Peter jumped in again to try to reign in the speeding locomotive. "Walter," he snapped.

Walter turned and took Peter in, and in a moment of clarity, found the bruised knuckles.

"What happened to your hands?" He hurried over to inspect the damage. Peter had forgotten about his battled knuckles, and quickly stuffed them in his pocket, easing his face into a relaxed bluff.

"It's nothing. Misunderstanding." He grinned. This seemed to slate Walter enough to move on.

He started back toward the kitchen yelling "Blueberry pancakes" over his shoulder—Peter followed him rather than go up the stairs to his room, which is what he would have much rather have done.

"You've just missed Agent Dunham," Walter started as he open the fridge to pull out the milk and a carton of eggs.

Peter cleared his throat, "Did she get back home okay?" He hoped he didn't sound too eager. If he did, Walter didn't catch it, pulling out a large mixing bowl and some flour.

"Oh, yes, yes—a taxi came to pick her up. She looked a rather upset." Walter said over lowered brows, trying to sound nonchalant.

Peter shrugged, trying not to think too much about it. In fact, he didn't want to think at all.

"Save me some pancakes," he threw as he made his way back to the staircase. So close…

He felt a buzzing in his pocket stopped him. Reaching in he pulled it out to read the text message:

_Peter, it's Olivia. Can you come over? We need to talk. _

Shit. Rubbing a bleary eye he considered turning it off like he never saw it, but he wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't. He didn't write back, but stuck it into his coat pocket again and on shuffling feet made his way back to the door, not sure if this was good sign or bad.

"Probably bad," he mumbled, telling Walter he was going out and heading back into the cool morning air to make another drive over to see just how bad things were.


	5. Chapter 5

it continues... many thanks to the wonderful reviews and feedback!

* * *

When Olivia got tense she would crack her knuckles as a girl; a filthy habit she adapted that she had at one point grown out of when she witnessed her stepfather doing it right before he'd go after her mother. She hated it ever since. There would be times when she'd catch herself doing it when she was stressed out and feel disgusted at her moment of weakness afterward.

She had cracked the hell out of her knuckles all that morning.

She was feeling more herself after she was able to escape Walter and get herself into a long hot shower—washing away the embarrassment of the night before. Staring at herself wrapped up in a fluffy towel she was suddenly reminded of her time in alternate Olivia's life: she felt…more intact, less complacent somehow, in a life that wasn't hers but could have been. In the other Olivia's life there was no stepfathers who would make twelve year olds watch as they beat their mothers half to death and send a birthday card to remind them; Charlie's that were alive and well; no John Scott's who led secret lives, and especially no Peter Bishop's.

Because Peter Bishop was stolen from that universe.

She pushed the remnants of bangs that hadn't completely grown out off her forehead, smashing it down to her scalp in an attempt to push whatever reminders of Fauxlivia that still lingered; feeling with annoyance the way her hair still clung to the red color, blemishing it into a blotchy shade she couldn't completely wash out. She hated it.

It had been twenty minutes since she sent the text message to Peter; once she got her faculties back and could analyze the situation with detached rationalization—she was good at that. She didn't want to run away like he had—she was going to hit this straight on, like she always does. She had things to say, and damn it, he was going to listen. She wanted him to tell her to her face how he missed she was gone, fighting for her life while he played house with her doppelganger, and she was going to once and for all get over Peter Bishop.

He hadn't responded back yet, she didn't think he would—but she knew he would come. She hastily dried off and peeled the safety of the towel away, darting into her room to grab some clothes to change into. As an afterthought, she picked up the clothing she was wearing earlier and shoved them into her hamper. She clung to a grey shirt for a moment before changing her mind and stuffing it under her comforter on her bed.

There was a knock on her door, and she knew exactly who it would be.

"Bring it, Bishop." She grumbled under her breath, tightening her shoulders—ready for the ensuing fight that she had every intention on winning.

Peter was pretty sure he was worse behind the wheel than being legally drunk—four hours of sleep in three days was taking its toll and he was starting to feel old. Huffing outside her door, he wanted desperately not to have to deal with any of this. He hated not feeling prepared; he was always proactively thinking, thanks to his irritatingly high IQ-but he wasn't sure how to deal with the events leading up to last night. He still wasn't sure if he shouldn't have just left Olivia at the bar.

He pushed that away immediately, knowing full well if he ever crossed that man again he would react the exact same way again and drag him back into the nearest bathroom to kick the shit out of again.

He knocked.

Olivia answered right away, opening the door a crack to eye him and he wondered if she had been waiting by the door for him.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he answered.

She opened the door wider, letting Peter slip inside, hands squashed in his pockets as he followed her into her living room. She was dressed in her Northwestern shirt and a pair of sweats. She looked like she just got out of the shower before he arrived, taking in her wet hair laying uncombed down her back.

The thought of her in the shower made Peter just a few degrees warmer.

"You look better." he said—leaving all inflection out of his voice. She nodded, wrapping her arms around her chest and squaring off to match his body language.

"I feel better." she stately flatly, accepting his pleasantries. After a moment she added, "thanks for coming."

Peter's mouth was a hard line as he nodded, waiting for her to come out with it already.

Olivia cracked her knuckles, the only sound filling her apartment.

"So what is it that you want, Olivia?" He expelled curtly; unable to rein himself in.

Olivia's eyes narrowed but she wouldn't let him get under her skin—not this time. He was not going to dictate how this conversation was going to go.

"Peter," she started warningly.

Peter's mind was frayed, feeling like his head was boiling under the pressure of thinking. "I don't mean to sound uninterested, but whatever you'd like to tell me I'm all ears _sweetheart_."

He was back to that damn nickname. Being angry was a reasonable response for Olivia—it was much easier to be angry than the other feelings that could betray her resolve at the moment. She'll make him eat those words. Her anxiousness boiled over into anger and she spoke without thinking.

"I want know why," she said, her resentment slipping out.

Peter balked, confused.

"Why what?" He said.

It was getting real hard to explain anything with satisfaction, and Peter's frustration made hers worse. She forgot everything she wanted to say, and just spat whatever came to mind.

"Why her and not me?" she blurted.

Peter was hit with a thousand arrows; each ice cold and stabbing every exposed piece of skin he owned.

"What?" He asked again, feeling stupid.

Olivia didn't realize how quickly she had been breathing, feeling her emotions betray her and she was close to a breaking point she didn't realize she was close to.

"Why her? Why did you pick her and not me?" She whispered, avoiding looking at him directly.

Peter couldn't process. Her?

"What her?" he felt so ridiculous having her spell it out for him, but he didn't much care what she thought of him at that moment. It took less than a second for him to catch up. She could almost hear the click as the cogs fell into place.

"The other you?" He didn't know why he was asking it like a question. Of course it was her. He didn't trust himself to say her name—it felt taboo for so long.

Olivia's head was rocking as he said this, not quite a 'yes' but he got the point. She was chewing hard on her lip, trying to keep it bottled up.

Peter's anger dissipated, and he felt a new flood of emotion: remorse. It was difficult not to draw on the side of him that wanted to run straight to her and jump feet first after her. He'd done it so many times before it felt like second nature.

"It wasn't a choice between the two of you," he tried, feeling his breathing hitch as she turned her face away, unable to look at him, "it was never about that."

"I get it—she's everything I'm not—" Olivia cut in, her breathing rattling as she tried to keep herself together, it was hard to keep her anger, all there was left was the numbness she was being overtaken by.

Peter took his hands out of his pockets and a long stride toward her, trying to limit the space between them, needing aggressively for her to listen to him.

"I didn't know," he barked.

"I know. I know you didn't. You couldn't see it was me. I was left there—never giving up that you'd come back for me—but you didn't. You left." she shouted over him.

His anger returned like a freight train.

"I came back for you—because you asked me to." His voice rose as he laid all pretenses to rest. His voice was dangerously close shouting. Her eyes found his a locked war of blue versus green.

She took another step back, freeing the space between them. She needed more air that what the room could supply at the moment.

"You didn't come back. Not for me."

Peter's hands were shaking; he was feeling out of control. His face flushed with anger as he tried to keep calm. _She didn't understand anything_.

"I didn't come back when my mother died. I got a far away as I could possibly go. I didn't come back when Walter was put into a mental institution and I wasn't going to come back when I found out my whole fucking existence was a lie. But I came back for you, for the simple reason because you asked me to. And if that doesn't tell you what you meant—what you mean," he corrected, "then you don't know me half as well as you think you do." His voice was horse from the effort of admitting those words.

Olivia stared, momentarily speechless. "But it wasn't me, she wasn't me—"she countered, he waved her off and took another heavy step toward her.

"—It wasn't you, I know that now. You don't think that fact hasn't haunted me ever since you returned? That a fucking genius with an IQ rivaling Einstein whose pride and arrogance answered away the differences he saw because he thought he was the god damned reason for it? That I made you happy?"

His fury was white-hot and it threw Olivia off. She took a step back, his words sinking in, leaving an unpleasant taste in her mouth. He followed her, purposely invading her space with his and she felt her skin hum at his proximity; his intensity boring into her.

Peter's skin was on fire—charring his bones and clearing his foggy mind into exact clarity. He was going to make her understand him, to listen to him and she could judge all she wanted.

Olivia had back up so much her back hit the opposite wall, Peter was right there, face inches away from hers—if she didn't know Peter, she'd be afraid that he might hit her.

"Then why did you reject me last night?" She fired back, she felt her neck burn and she was sure it was red with the flush engulfing her. She took in the small changes in his face as he reacted.

He took a step back, and she wanted to pull him closer—he was staring at her with a new emotion but she couldn't find its name.

"I beat the shit out of some asshole stranger who tried to fuck you as you were passed out against the wall in a bar—I wasn't going to do the same thing." He almost whispered the last part.

She turned her face away, if anything for the sole reason of not having to face the hard gaze he had fixed on her, and she knew she couldn't live with seeing the disappointment there. She tried a new tactic.

"You didn't want me." She mumbled into her shoulder, feeling hot and unsteady. Peter gripped her chin softly, pulling her to face him as he whispered her name.

"Olivia," He took another step into her, feeling the heat pouring out of him and knew she could feel it too. She braced her hands against the wall behind her, keeping her upright.

"You have no idea-" he explained, she rolled her eyes away from him and he moved his hand from her chin to cup her cheek as he pulled her gaze back.

"-But not like that." His breath was fire in her face and it took everything she had not to leave nail marks in the plaster. He was staring dangerously at her lips, watching them part under his scrutiny.

"Peter," she started, not trusting herself to say anything else.

"Christ, I want you," he whispered into her open mouth, and she jumped at the present tense of "want" and she was broken and beseeching and hot and coiled all at the same time. It was her that closed the minute space separating them as she crushed her mouth into his and he followed with such ferocity that it scared him. She pulled at him, crushing him against her, sandwiching her against the wall as her fingers dug themselves into his hair.

Peter's brain could take every sense in with expert clarity: the smell of her damp hair as her shampoo lingered in his nostrils, the taste of her lips and tongue on his, the feeling of her hands clamping too hard on his scalp, crushing his face against hers and the sound of her ragged breathing; hot and furious in his face.

He crushed her against the wall, palming her face roughly to try to keep her close, feeling an overwhelming fear that if he let go, even loosened his grip, might make her disappear. He felt like he was the only thing keeping her grounded—and he intended on keeping her that way.

Olivia was an inferno desperate for release; she wanted to feel all of him, to swallow him whole and engulf him in the hot fire she was feeling. She knew her was gripping him too hard, her fisted knuckles threatening to pull his hair out by the roots and she thought _good. _

Her rational side clicked off, running off of raw and uninhibited emotion as she loosened her grip in his hair to push his jacket off his shoulders. Peter reluctantly pulled his hands away from her face to straighten his arms just enough to let the leather fall in a silent puddle behind him only to clutch at the sides of her neck where her jaw rested to appraise her face with an abandoned want so sever she thought she'd shrink back from his gaze, but she returned his ferocity in fold.

Peter's eyes were so dark they were black in his sockets, his breath in her face and she gripped his shirt around his waist and pulled him back to her, crushing his hips against hers and wrapping her arms around his torso, raking her fingernails across his back. She could feel his back stiffen under her touch as he flattened his mouth against hers and all she could think was _mine mine mine._

"Olivia," he whispered her name—_her name_—against her lips and she parted them, finding his hungry tongue and meeting it with hers. She was practically panting in his mouth, forgetting to breathe and feeling delirious and dizzy all at the same time. He turned his mouth expertly to the delicate place where her ear and jaw to drawl his teeth over her skin and she was gasping his name. She could feel him chuckle against her neck as he slid his hands down to graze his thumbs against her collar agonizingly slow and reserved. Peter's fingers lingered there, unable to take the last step over the threshold.

_Damn it Peter _she thought as she took his forearms and pulled them down to slide his palms over her waiting breasts, feeling his sharp intake of breath with satisfaction and with a quick flick of his head found her lips again with renewed vigor as he raked his teeth over her bottom lip.

Peter was boiling in his skin; running his fingers over the soft skin of her breasts through the flimsy protection of her t-shirt; weighing them in his hands and tracing their curves with wanting fingers, feeling her reaction to his touch. He wanted her so bad it hurt, nudging a knee between hers to fill any space separating them and showing her exactly his reaction to her.

"Peter," she breathed against his neck pushed him back a few inches to look up at him—he immediately stopped moving, breathing harshly as he breathed out a concerned "what?" giving her room to backtrack if she needed it.

Olivia tipped her head toward her bedroom, hoping Peter would pick up the hint. He was a genius of course, and she was grateful she didn't have to say the words aloud.

"Are you sure?" He whispered, smoothing his hand over her hair and nuzzling his forehead against hers.

He was positive he'd spontaneously combust if she said no—but he had to hear the words.

Olivia grinned, pink cheeked and shaky as she gripped his hand in hers and reached up on her tiptoes to kiss his lips softly to gently pull him toward her bedroom.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry, that was rather rude of me to cut it at the smut! I wanted to break this segment into two chapters to make it easier to follow. Please hang in there, the smut is coming...(or is it?)

-S


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry about the first draft- I posted an unedited copy. If I find more mistakes I'll fix them later. Please don't let that distract from the smut :)

* * *

This wasn't the first time Peter had been in Olivia's room.

Peter's mind wandered to a similar scenario that took place in this setting, same person—different circumstances. It was hard not to compare the two, the way his body reacted to her touch; how her lips pushed against his, he wondered if he closed his eyes if he'd be able to tell the difference.

Peter snapped his eyes open—willing the errant thought away. The other Olivia a dark spot in an already seedy past, one he wanted to distance himself from. He wanted this to be about her—about them, about this moment.

She was guiding him silently toward the foot of her bed, wrapping her arms around his neck and learning his lips all over again. He noticed differences in their kisses: subtle, but obvious; the other Olivia's were light, letting him lead and following. His Olivia's were forceful and demanding, taking no prisoners and holding nothing back. He was so fucking turned on it took all his resolve not to push her up against the wall and have her.

Olivia pulled back, raking her fingers across Peter's shoulders and making the hairs on his neck rise. Her face was raw where she brushed too hard against his unshaven face, her eyelids heavy as she took Peter in. Peter stopped for her to say something, furrowing his brow: waiting.

She opened her mouth, but couldn't decide on what to say; biting her lip as Peter stepped closer, trailing his hands down her sides to rest on her hips. He brought his face down to meet hers, but she dropped her head away to mumble into his mouth:

"No comparing notes, okay?" Her soft lips brushed against his. He brought his hands up to her face, daring her to look at him.

"There's no comparison," he spoke slowly, dipping his head to sweep his tongue over her bottom lip. The words erupted in Olivia's mind; little dots of color exploding like firecrackers. She grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him with her until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she dropped, flinging Peter on the mattress with her. He landed with a grunt that turned into a chuckle.

She scooted him to the head of the mattress and felt his hands return to her stomach, making her inside ignite as he pushed them up under her shirt to run a thumb over her nipple, a whimper escaping her before she could stop it. She was back to gripping his hair so firmly they were steel vices trapping his head against hers and all he could think was he was too close. Wrapping around his free arm he pulled her into his chest, pinching his thumb and forefinger around her nipple and listening intently to her haggard breathing in his ear.

It was almost cheating, he thought—he knew exactly what she liked without her ever saying it. It was a weird, exhilarating rush to think that he was the only man on earth to have sex with two Olivia Dunham's. If it wasn't such a source of guilt for him, he'd write in to Penthouse bragging about it. He was interested to see just how alike they were.

He pushed off her lips with a small pop and trailed his nosed down over her shirt, stopping momentarily to nip at the breast that was unencumbered by his hand and felt the smug satisfaction when she arched her back into his mouth. He trailed lower, watching as she got the hint and let go of his hair, flattening her hands on the duvet on either side of her and rolling her eyes back to let the sensation of Peter's mouth roll over her as he trailed down her stomach.

He stopped at the waistband of her sweats, taking two fingers to hook in the elastic and yanked impatiently, Olivia raised her hips so he could tug them down over her legs. Peter's brain boiled at the sight of her, half-naked and eagerly awaiting. He took charge, dropping his head to her stomach and felt her buck as he pressed his lips against the flimsy material of her underwear.

Olivia felt like she was riding a roller coaster; in the front compartment churning upward before a giant drop. She dug her fingers into the material of her bed to keep herself from calling out when he opened his mouth to drag his tongue over her through her underwear and the rollercoaster plummeted, spiraling her wildly over the cliff in a wave of white-hot pleasure. She arched back, letting the orgasm carry her back to earth with shaking hands and gasping words, muttering _fuck _over and over again_,_ in a way that would make her die of shame if her neighbors overheard.

Peter froze, watching Olivia's eyes rolling back as she came, feeling immensely content with himself. He waited for her to regain to focus to find him. When she could breathe she could feel the self-satisfaction radiating off him like heat.

He wound back up to her face, taking her lips captive again and feeling the beginnings of electricity riding up his spine like a fuse to a detonator. Watching her come sent shivers of passion down him and he knew he wouldn't be able to wait much longer.

Olivia sat up, needing to feel more of him against her—hating the feeling of too many clothes between them as she dragged his shirt over his head with brute force that made him shudder under her touch. He took the hem of her shirt and raised it, savoring the feeling of rediscovering the sight of her naked body and feeling his erection push painfully against the denim of his jeans.

He pulled the shirt up over her head, trapping her face in the fibers of her shirt. Peter heard her "umph" in response—a mixture between a laugh and irritation. He stilled her arms when she tried to worm herself out, pushing the collar of her shirt far enough up to free her mouth, hiding the rest of her face and leaving her arms bound over her head.

"Peter," she said, annoyed at being blinded. Running his thumb across her lips silenced her and she opened her mouth to taste his thumb. He took an undisturbed moment to fully take her in, the red flush spreading across her chest as it heaved rhythmically under him. She was different; the way she waited patiently, the movement of her legs against his side, even the way she breathed—she was different. She was a new undiscovered frontier.

"I'm feeling a little exposed here," she mumbled into the fabric. Peter finally pulled the rest of the shirt over her head, her hair fall like rain over her naked shoulders.

"Better?" He asked, she crinkled her nose and reached for his shoulders, pulling him back on top of her, feeling the heat from his chest on hers and she was so ready for him and she could explode in her skin with the slightest provocation.

She pushed his lips aside with her nose, trailing it down his chin to smell the musk of his neck. She trailed her fingers down his stomach, feeling him twitch as she tickled the muscles there; remembering to store that tidbit of information away for a later date.

When she reached his belt buckle, he didn't stop her. He rolled slightly away to give her easier passage, closing his eyes to take in the sensation of her hands pulling the leather that bound him. She made quick work of the belt, pushing her hands down to unzip his jeans and push them off his hips. Peter kicked off his boots and helped her push the denim down until he was able to kick those off too, leaving him unabashedly exposed.

What was first electricity in Peter's spine was now completely ablaze; the heat trailing up every vertebra inch by agonizing inch and threatening to incinerate him from the inside out. He rolled on top of her, reaching for her face and smothering her with the voltage of lightning. She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh and her breathing hitched; gasping in his mouth as she trailed her palms down to take his length in her hand , making him heave a ragged groan. He was going to come in her hands if he wasn't careful he thought madly, mumbling her name against her lips as a warning.

Olivia was shaking from the anticipation; she released Peter to pull her hands to pull the last shred of clothing separating them down her hips as Peter trailed his hands down her sides, making her shudder in his gentleness.

"Hey, look at me." He breathed, lifting her chin up to him.

The waiting was getting excruciating.

"You're not drunk are you?" He said, straight-faced and bold as brass. She groaned in disgust and slapped his hand away. "Come here," she chortled, gripping him a twinge harder than necessary and grinning a little when he winced. He rolled on top of her, nestling between her knees and dipping his forehead against hers.

"You sure about this?" he said, his eyes dark and prowling; looking for any signs of indecision. Stone faced and silent, never wavering her eyes away, she guided him into her, watching his eyes slam shut as he entered.

She was soft and yielding where he was hard and giving; Peter had to move his mouth to her neck to control his breathing because it was so ragged he worried he'd black out. She was so wet it was intoxicating, losing himself entirely to sensation as he rocked into her, praying she couldn't see the manic face he was sure he was wearing. Olivia was gripping him so tightly against her she couldn't see anything other than Peter. Peter's face, Peter's chest, Peter's breath in her ear and his thrusting hips that were turning more feral by the second.

She reveled in the feeling of him, filling and stretching her and mumbling her name against her chest and she felt the tip in her stomach, the rising roller coaster; ready to plunge again.

She pushed him away, twisting against his chest to roll him onto his back and straddling him, rocking against him and digging her nails in his shoulders.

"'livia," he panted, gripping her skin trying desperately to slow her grinding hips as she thrusted deeper into him, and he knew his end was near.

She knew he was close—the line on his forehead dark as his brow furrowed and he sank his fingers into her skin to pull her closer, he wasn't going to last much longer but he didn't want to, he was frantic to finally release the overwhelming tension in his abdomen coiled so tightly he thought he could set something on fire with his mind.

Olivia leaned down, brushing her breasts against his chest as she whispered in his ear, "come with me" and Peter was undone: his vision blotted with little spots of lights as he careened over the edge of reason and possibility; feeling everything, _everything_ there was in the universe at that moment. He grabbed onto anything he could keep a hold of to keep him grounded; gripping Olivia like she tethered him to the earth. He heard him moaning her name in a voice so low it didn't sound like his.

Olivia had felt him stiffen, watching his eyes trying to hold hers as he came, her name escaping his lips with such ferocity and she felt her stomach drop; jumping off the cliff right behind him, feeling the heat spread up her back until she was coming as well.

Peter wanted to watch her, to see her come with him, but his eyes clamped shut so tightly through the waves of pleasure and he couldn't breathe, let alone move.

Olivia was a leaf winding lazily back to earth with a cool breeze. She dropped her head to Peter's chest-exhausted, feeling the jack-hammering of his heart against her ear. Peter folded her to rest against his shoulder, trying to regulate his breathing. He brushed his nose against her forehead, opening his eyes with strenuous effort and stealing a kiss in a way that was most uncharacteristic of him.

All they could hear was the shared heavy breathing that filled the bedroom. Peter reached behind Olivia to grab a blanket to toss over them and Olivia snuggled into him, breathing in the scent of them together. Peter turned his neck to look at something over her shoulder, something catching his eye.

Curious, she looked up at him.

"Olivia?"

All she could get out was a lazy "hmm?"

"Is that my MIT shirt?"

* * *

A/N: finally the end! Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and feedback!

BTW- has ANYONE seen the set photo of Joshua Jackson wearing a wedding ring? Brain=exploded


End file.
